


I'll Take a Cup of Kindness (But a Kiss Would Be Better)

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pre-Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, nice girls don't like getting applauded when they kiss awkward boys at New Year's Eve parties. Patrick finds this out the hard way. </p>
<p>By the end of the night, though, he isn't all that bothered by it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Take a Cup of Kindness (But a Kiss Would Be Better)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by fob's recent interview with Music Choice in which patrick describes his most memorable NYE kiss. my friends and i started screaming on twitter and soon this little nugget was born. hope you enjoy :) happy 2016!!!!!

Patrick doesn’t even know her name. He’s pretty sure she’d mentioned it at some earlier point in their conversation, but he hadn’t understood it over the din of the music and the more-than-half-drunk partygoers milling about the living room around them. To be honest, though, her name is kind of low on Patrick’s list of concerns at this point—his buzzed, seventeen-year-old, bisexual brain is focused solely on the fact that there is an attractive human being standing in front of him, and she’s laughing at his lame jokes and touching his shoulder and _biting her lip_ as she talks to him. He hadn’t known he possessed the power to make a pretty girl bite her fucking lip. This power, he decides, must be harnessed for good.

If only it worked on eccentric, tattooed bass players with dark eyes and broad, infectious smiles.

When the girl—who’s probably at least two years older than him, Patrick realizes suddenly—closes her eyes and crinkles her button nose in a laugh, the boy casts his gaze around the crowded room to search for that bassist. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz, Jr., and his wife are on a New Year’s cruise in the Bahamas, so their responsible young adult of a son, Pete III, has been left in charge of their large house for a week. Within five minutes of learning about his parents’ plans, Pete had planned this New Year’s Eve party in his impulsive head, and now here it was, living, breathing, and a bit smelly. But even Patrick has to admit…it’s pretty fun. He’s lucky to be best friends with The Famous Pete Wentz. _Even if I might wanna be more than that._

Embarrassingly, Patrick’s heart skips a bit when he finally spots Pete across the room. He’s talking with his straightedge drummer friend Andy and Joe, the lead guitarist of their new little start-up band, “Fall Out Boy”. None of them have any idea how long it’ll last, but it’s been pretty fun so far. They even have tentative plans to record a short album early next year; Patrick gets all tingly just thinking about it. The tingles intensify when he sees Pete in the middle of his contagious braying laugh: his head is thrown back and his whiskey-brown eyes are crinkled at the corners and God, it just makes Patrick love him even more.

Unfortunately, Patrick is short, kinda chubby, and awkward as hell, and Pete is… _Pete._ Cool and hot and good with people in ways that Patrick just _isn’t_. Yeah, he has his breakdowns—some of which Patrick has to talk or sing him down from—but in general, he’s completely, _hopelessly_ out of Patrick’s league.

Which is what makes the hugs and the heart eyes and the nicknames and the constant compliments on his voice and face so confusing to Patrick. Pete’s told him he loves him probably a hundred times this week, but as sweet as those “I love you”s are, none of them have the meaning that Patrick so desperately wants. The meaning he probably won’t ever get from Pete. He tells himself it’s okay, that he’ll get over it eventually, but every time the bassist asks Patrick to sing him to sleep, it makes the whole getting-over-him thing that much harder.

Alright. He’s gotta stop thinking all these wistful thoughts—he’s at a New Year’s Eve party, talking to a hot girl in her early twenties who’s _totally_ into him. She opens her bright green eyes and tosses her long brunette hair back over one shoulder, beaming. He smiles back, all thoughts of Pete pushed out of his head for now.

Their small talk dwindles over the next ten minutes or so and Patrick’s peeling at the label of the empty beer bottle in his hands when the girl says out of nowhere, “So, cutie, you ever had a New Year’s kiss before?”

Her coy smile and the mischievous lilt to her voice startles Patrick momentarily, and he almost drops the bottle. He blinks a couple times, trying to block out the constant stream of _she thinks I’m cute she called me cute shethinksimcuteohmygod_ that’s now playing in his head. “U-Um.” Licking his lips a bit ( _is that too obvious fuck shit fuck_ ), he shakes his head. “No, uh, I haven’t.” He hasn’t had a “real” kiss at all, actually, but she doesn’t need to know that.

The girl bites her lip again and briefly glances down at Patrick’s mouth. She sets her empty Solo cup on the punch table beside them before looping her arms loosely around Patrick’s neck ( _holy SHIT_ ) and gazing into his eyes meaningfully. “Well,” she asks, leaning in a little closer, “Do you want one?”

Patrick barely has the sense to blindly reach around and set the bottle down to free up his hands. He swallows hard and rests them lightly on her hips, hoping he’s doing this right. “S-Sure, yeah, totally,” he says, and he can’t help but stare at her glossy pink lips. Then, like the fucking awkward idiot he is, he adds, “But, um, it—it isn’t midnight yet. D-Don’t you wanna—”

Thank _fuck_ this girl is impatient, because she cuts him off with a soft, sweet kiss before he can make a bigger fool of himself.

It’s… _really_ nice. She tastes like raspberry vodka and peppermint chapstick; Patrick hopes he doesn’t only taste like beer. He can’t hold in the little gasp he lets out when he involuntarily parts his lips and she slips her tongue between them, brushing teasingly against his. This makes him tighten his grip on her hips and tug her closer, tilting his head and trying to pretend he’s more experienced than he is. Apparently he’s doing an alright job, if her little sighs of pleasure are any indication. She winds one hand in the tuft of hair at the back of Patrick’s head that isn’t covered by his green knit cap (a Christmas gift from Pete) and Patrick whimpers quietly as she tugs on the soft strands.

Yeah. This is pretty awesome. Pete who?

Like most of the awesome things in Patrick’s life, though, soon it all comes to a screeching, premature halt.

He vaguely registers Pete’s distinct voice catcalling from the other side of the living room, “Wooo! Yeah, you _go,_ ‘Trick, get some!” There’s a few laughs; Patrick feels all the eyes in the room turn towards him, and before he knows it, he and his, er, lady friend are being drowned in enthusiastic applause.

Despite his near-crippling social anxiety, Patrick feels pride swell in his chest as his friends cheer for him, congratulating him on his manliness and sexual prowess, no doubt. He smiles into the kiss and starts to pull the girl in even closer—

—just as she pulls away, stricken. She looks almost scared, whipping her head around and staring at the small crowd watching them. Her arms drop from around Patrick’s neck and she takes a few steps back, turning to look at him with wide eyes.

Patrick, panting and blushing, blinks at her in confusion as the cheers die down. “You okay?” he asks, swiping the back of his hand over his swollen lips. “Was—was that not—?”

“Why did they do that?” she asks, breaking the awkward silence that’s slowly filling the room.

“I…I don’t…” Patrick isn’t sure what she means.

“Did you, like, make a bet with them or something? Tell them if you managed to hook up with some girl, they’d have to fucking _applaud_ you for it?” Now she’s _mad,_ scowling at Patrick like he’d stuck his hand up her shirt in front of everyone.

The singer shakes his head, cheeks burning from the scrutiny they’re both under now, and reaches out a placating hand. “No, I swear, I-I didn’t!”

She just scoffs disdainfully. “Whatever. Find someone else to be your arm candy, dick. If you even can.” With a huff and another hair flip, she stalks away, heading towards the front door.

Back in the living room, the crowd is silent, apart from a few concerned murmurs. Patrick is frozen with shame where he stands, staring down at his tattered Converse and trying not to burst into embarrassed tears in front of his friends. After a few seconds of severe mental self-punishment, he spins on his heel and flees, cutting through the kitchen to get to the staircase that leads to the second floor. He thinks he hears Pete calling after him, but that’s probably more wishful thinking.

Ten seconds later, Patrick’s sitting on the cold tile floor of the upstairs bathroom with his knees drawn up to his chest and his face buried in his arms. He isn’t crying, but he’s not that far off. The only thing keeping him from dissolving into a puddle like he wants to is the vain hope that maybe the girl will come back before midnight. He doesn’t want to meet her again with puffy red eyes and a scratchy voice. Maybe she’ll tell him her name again; he promises himself he won’t forget it this time.

He’s not sure how long he stays holed up in that tiny room, trying to regulate his breathing and wondering if there’s a safe way to give himself amnesia. The thing that finally gets him to lift his head again is his phone buzzing in the pocket of his ripped jeans—he sniffles, digs it out, and flips it open to read the text he’s just received.

It’s from Pete. _where r u rickstr its almost mdnite_

At first, Patrick feels an irrational flare of anger. It was Pete that started the clapping and the catcalls—technically, that makes it Pete’s fault that Patrick isn’t getting lucky in the coat closet right now. If he’d just kept his huge mouth shut…

…no. That isn’t fair. Pete didn’t mean for any of this to happen—he was just trying to be Patrick’s overly-supportive best friend, as always. He really is way too good to the younger boy.

Sighing in defeat, Patrick replies, _Bathroom upstairs down the hall from ur room._

_r u okay??? that grl was a bitch she shldnt hve left u like tht_

_She wasnt a bitch she just got flustered & embarrassed. Its ok really im fine_

_bet ur not. im comin up_

Patrick barely has time to sigh at Pete’s endearing predictability before he hears a semi-frantic knock on the bathroom door. “Patrick?” Pete’s voice calls, and he sounds genuinely concerned.

Patrick’s heart softens. “Yeah, I’m here.” He pushes himself up off the floor with a quiet grunt and walks over to the door. As soon as he unlocks it, it flies open and almost breaks his nose. “What the—?”

“’Trick!” And Pete’s on him, wrapping him in a suffocating hug and shoving his cold nose into the crook of the shorter boy’s neck. “Oh my god, ‘Trick, _Patrick,_ are you okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I-I didn’t know she would—”

“Pete!” Patrick cuts him off and hugs him back, though not as tight. “Stop it, alright? I’m fine, and it wasn’t your fault.”

Pete pulls back and stares at him in confusion. “Yes it was,” he says, face drooping with remorse. “I made everyone start cheering and shit. It…I was just happy for you, is all, a-and I thought…” His voice trails off and he looks so sad that Patrick just has to tug him back into the hug.

“Not your fault,” he murmurs in Pete’s ear again, and Pete holds him tighter. “Yeah, it sucked, and I kinda really don’t wanna go back down there and face all those people yet, but I’m not, like, mad at them or anything. And I’m not mad at you.”

“You promise?” Pete asks in a small voice.

Patrick digs his fingertips into Pete’s back and _wills_ the older boy to believe him. “I promise.”

It’s silent for several long seconds after that. Patrick closes his eyes and breathes in Pete’s familiar, comforting scent of sweat and fruity hair product that he probably steals from his sister. He loves these moments of stillness when there’s no one else around and it’s just them, PeteandPatrick, two halves of an oddly-shaped whole that really shouldn’t work. But it does. It really, really does, and it’s hugs like these that remind Patrick just how grateful he is for it. For everything Pete’s done for him—supporting him, believing in him, practically forcing him to sing for their shoddy little band. Even with the mood swings and the tantrums and the fights they sometimes have about their music, Patrick couldn’t ask for a better best friend.

He feels Pete take a breath to speak, but before he can, a loud chant rises from downstairs: _“Fifteen!...Fourteen!...Thirteen!...”_

The older boy pulls back barely a foot and looks down at Patrick, biting his lip anxiously. Patrick’s stomach flips. “Uh…‘Trick?”

Patrick swallows hard. “Y-Yeah?”

Pete glances away for a moment, then meets Patrick’s eyes again. He looks nervous, but there’s a flash of determination in his eyes that Patrick only sees when they’re writing music together. Taking a deep breath, he stammers, “I could—I-I mean, you kinda lost your New Year’s kiss down there, and, um…I wanna make it up to you.”

_This has to be a dream._ Patrick gazes up at Pete owlishly; he can feel the scarlet blush creeping into his cheeks already. “H-How would you do that?” he asks, praying he gets the answer he wants more than anything in the universe.

_“…Eight!...Seven!...”_

Pete glances down at Patrick’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. Patrick’s sure his heartbeat is audible when the bassist licks his own lips and starts to lean in towards him. His voice is barely louder than a whisper when he asks, “Would…this be okay?”

Patrick shivers when Pete’s sweet breath ghosts over his parted lips. He lets his eyes slip closed and winds his arms around Pete’s neck, craning up on his tiptoes a bit. Pete’s arms around his waist hold him steady.

_“…Three!...Two!...”_

“Yes,” Patrick breathes, and the distance between them disappears.

Cheers and shouts of _“Happy 2002!”_ echo through the house, but the only thing Patrick is aware of in this moment is Pete’s mouth moving slowly against his. For all his big talk—and the talk of others who call him a Casanova—Pete’s kind of a clumsy kisser. Patrick doesn’t mind in the least, though; in fact, he’s relieved that he isn’t years behind Pete when it comes to experience in this. He just tangles his fingers in Pete’s short, mildly greasy hair and slides their tongues together as well as he knows how, and his knees go weak when Pete reciprocates.

Down the block, a few people are setting off fireworks. They’re nothing compared to the vibrant explosions going off behind Patrick’s eyelids as he loses himself in his best friend like he’s wanted to for almost two years.

The kiss is slow and gentle and reasonably chaste, and Patrick wants it to last forever. But oxygen soon becomes a dire need for both of them, so he’s forced to pull away reluctantly, panting. Pete’s chest heaves against his own as he hides his face in Pete’s neck, clinging to him with everything he has and trying not to get too overwhelmed by the enormity of what’s just happened.

“Wow,” Pete whispers, running a hand slowly up and down Patrick’s back. “Happy fucking New Year to me.”

Patrick laughs breathlessly and nods, pressing closer to the taller boy and sighing when he feels a light kiss pressed to his temple. The room doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

That’s when something occurs to him, and he groans in exasperation, slumping against Pete slightly. “Ohmygod, we’re in your _bathroom,”_ he mumbles against Pete’s skin.

“Very true,” Pete muses; Patrick can hear the smirk in his voice, and he knows exactly what Pete’s going to say before he says it: “Wanna move to my bedroom?”

Patrick pulls back a little just to fix Pete with a withering glare. There’s no real heat behind it, though—he couldn’t be mad at Pete right now if someone paid him. He’s probably higher than everyone else in this house just from one kiss. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he rolls his eyes and nods. “Might as well,” he grouses, trying to bite back a smile. “I’d rather not kiss you next to a toilet.”

“Too late, you already have!” Pete jeers as his trademark grin spreads across his face like a sunrise. He lets go of Patrick, only to grab his hand and lead him out of the bathroom. “Y’know, I’m never gonna look at this room the same way again.”

Patrick blushes and rolls his eyes. “Oh, really,” he says, but he feels his heart swelling with affection.

“Yes, really,” Pete replies, turning back to glance at him as he tugs him down the hallway. “Now every time I sit on that toilet, I’ll remember—”

“You’ll think of me with every shit you take in that room from now on?” Patrick’s trying to sound stern, but his giggles are getting in the way. “Gee, thanks. I love you too, asshole.”

Pete stops in his tracks a few feet from his bedroom door. He turns to look at Patrick solemnly, his expression hopeful. “You do?” he asks softly, tugging Patrick closer. “You…do you love me, Patrick? Like, _love-_ love me?”

Patrick gazes up at him and he _knows_ he must have ridiculous hearts in his eyes like a Looney Tunes character, but he doesn’t care. “Yeah,” he whispers, reaching up with his free hand to cup the side of Pete’s face. “Y-Yeah, I really do, Pete. I ‘love-love’ you. I think maybe…I always have.”

All the fireworks going off around the world tonight would look like dim, dying stars next to the smile that splits Pete’s face when Patrick finally voices those words. “Good,” he murmurs. “I ‘love-love’—uh, I mean, I love you too. Like. A _lot_. In case I haven’t made that clear in the past.”

“You have,” Patrick assures him, grinning as wide as he can.

Pete grins back and drops a kiss to Patrick’s forehead before tugging on his hand. “C’mon. Lemme make it even clearer.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Challenge accepted.” Pete closes and locks the bedroom door behind them once they’re inside. He turns and wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist, smirking down at him. “How do you feel about starting off the New Year with a bang, ‘Trick?”

Patrick laughs and shakes his head in reproach. “I’ll bang your head with a frying pan if you use another line like that on me, Wentz.”

“Sorry,” Pete chuckles, then pecks him on the nose. “Hey, d’you think ‘Auld Lang Syne’ should be our song?”

“I swear, I’ll go straight to the kitchen—”

“Okay, fine, fine, I’ll stop.”

“Thank you. God, why am I in love with you?”

“Because I’m your best friend and I know you better than anyone and we complete each other on a fundamental level?”

“…Just shut up and kiss me.”

“Okay, but only because my New Year’s Resolution is to ravish you.”

“Fine with me.”

###


End file.
